


A Khajiit of Ill Fortune

by VagabondDiesel



Category: Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-02 11:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18810190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagabondDiesel/pseuds/VagabondDiesel
Summary: The result of an unpopular marriage between a courier and a desert nomad, Mai'Yahr was born and raised in the small town of Khenarthi's Roost in the Southern Isles. When he was hardly more than a cub, his father left on a routine trip and never returned, leaving him to shoulder the burden of supporting his mother. Irritated with her lackadaisical attitude and the harsh conditions of the moon sugar plantation he worked on, the young Khajiit left to find his fortune on the high seas.When the trading vessel he worked aboard was boarded and seized by raiders, Mai'Yahr was one of the few crew members left alive. Suffering from a bad fall and in dire condition, he was taken captive to be sold into slavery.Mai'Yahr earned his title, "the ill-fortuned" after a particularly dire turn of events. The Khajiit left a long and bloody trail in the wake of his escape, and he is believed to be responsible for the slaughter of a traveling caravan of his own kind as well as a party of guardsmen sent to retrieve him. While he remains at large to this day, a series of memoirs have surfaced with startling implications.Updated every Sunday





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, and welcome to my newest fic!
> 
> The setting is based off of the world of Elder Scrolls online, and predominately features Original Characters, though some of the character mentions are ones featured in-game, when it isn't lore-breaking. 
> 
> I've done my best to keep to the original lore of Elder Scrolls, though in the fevered frenzy of writing, I may have gotten some facts crossed. Feel free to let me know (politely) in the comments if you come across anything, and I'll do my best to correct them as long as it isn't story-breaking. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy!

 

 

       The courtyard was still and quiet as one of the temperate evenings in Reaper's March drew to a close. The dying light of the sun cast the modest Khajiit home at the center of the walled yard in shades of gold and red that sparkled like rubies in the currents of the creek that flowed through the outer edge of the property before being snuffed out in the shadows where the water drained through the grates beneath the stone wall.

        A drunken laugh filtered through the windows of the house, flung open to welcome the cool breeze from the east to flush out the heat that had gathered in the tall rafters over the day.

        The house's sole occupant paused to consider the mirthful giggles that followed, his black tipped ears straining to discern the babbled conversation before flicking dismissively. His mother had invited no guests tonight that he knew of - it must be the skooma, then.

 

        The Khajiit did not begrudge his mother her bad habits; that is, as long as she indulged in moderation. The saying he had heard so often, ‘once a skooma addict, always a skooma addict’ was lamentably true but whether the withdrawals were as physically torturous as she made them out to be or purely psychological was anyone's guess.

        He licked his fingers and snuffed out the glowing tip of the taper, the light from the wall sconces and bare candles flickering across his features and casting them into sharp relief.

 

        He possessed the slender physique and short stature of the Suthay; a breed somewhat less common than the Suthay-Raht but the difference was hardly noticeable to anyone not familiar with the intricacies of the the lunar phases and how they played with the characteristics of the Khajiit.

        The wizened midwife who had pulled him wet and whimpering into this world had clucked her tongue disapprovingly at the small bundle in her arms as she wiped the blood and afterbirth from the infant, revealing pale grey fur dusted with only the barest of markings. Later in the morning she would share a cup of tea with her companions, relaxing after the long, stressful birth of the night before and she would say his diminutive size and plain fur was the way of cubs born under the new moons, for Jode and June had no energy to spare for creation. 'If S'Varra's child had been female,’ they would say, 'what a graceful one she would grow into,’ and then they would shake their heads at the unspoken remainder of that sentence.

        Mai’Yahr would never be tall or burly, but decades of vigorous exercise and arms training had given him the toned body of a dancer. The little markings he had darkened to black when he shed his peach-fuzz kitten fur, leaving him with the distinctive tear-drop markings and brow spots of a cougar.

 

        With the house lit and supper's remnants cleared away, the Khajiit set himself to the task of carefully measuring out portions from small stoppered bottles into an inkwell, mixing the separate components thoroughly and testing samples on the back of a battered flyer until he was satisfied with the formula.

        That done, he reverently retrieved a tome from a cluttered bookshelf overflowing with cheap novels and curios and set it out on the low hexagonal table pushed against the wall, in perfect symmetry with the rooster-hackle quill and freshly-prepared ink. A drop of wax leaked from the bare candle at the center of the table onto the wood and he hissed softly at his inattention, fetching a small wooden dish to set under it and scrupulously pushing it away from his writing supplies.

        The Khajiit took a seat at the low table, curling his long tail around his hip and over his lap; a habit borne from past instances of crowded rooms and careless gaits. He did not begin writing immediately, but took a moment to admire the fine leather work and the quality of the vellum within. The twin moons on the binding were a bit unoriginal, perhaps, but the blank tome had been expensive enough without commissioning a custom design. Perhaps he would hire an illuminator to paint a scene just within, and with that thought he left the first page blank.

        The fingers that took up the quill may not have drawn immediate attention, but closer scrutiny revealed their disfigurement. Where long claws would normally protrude there was only a series of thin, surgically precise scars on each fingertip. If this bothered the Khajiit, he showed no sign of it as he dipped the quill into the inkwell and began to write.


	2. chapter two

“This one- I have considered the idea of giving an accounting of my life and times, and so with that in mind I have taken up the quill myself, as the service of a scribe is costly and I do not hire out work to others that can be done myself.”

As if to spite him, a small blotch leaked from the nib and obscured several characters. The Khajiit hissed softly, adjusted the angle of his wrist and began a new paragraph. 

“My name is Mai’Yahr. Thi- I was born to Za'Nir and S'Varra beneath the dark eyes of the new moons. My father came from a respectable lineage, demonstrated when his sister rose to guide the Khajit of Khenarthi's Roost as Clanmother. My immediate family was exempted from the honors accorded to my kin in large part due to my parent's bond. S'Varra was a Khajit of the Northern Tribes. While some communities are more forgiving of heritage, so far south the Northern Tribes were thought to be little more than savages and barbarians. 

My father had an honorable position as a courier, often riding with the great trading caravans on the mainland, a place that seemed as distant and mysterious as the moons to a young cub that grew up on the small island of Khenarthi's Roost. I do not remember much of my father…”

 

* * *

  
  


The young Khajiit whooped and cheered as he scrambled up the the top of the mound that was the focus of their play. 

“Mane of the hill!” he crowed triumphantly over the forms of the two other cubs sprawled at the bottom, too occupied with their conflict to check the grey Khajiit's ascent. 

“Not for long,” one of the other cubs growled, a husky tiger with the beginnings of a dark beard and sideburns speckling his chin fur. He surged up the hill and tackled the smaller cub without an ounce of restraint, sending him tumbling into a puddle on the other side. The third cub, another tiger a year younger than the other but just as large, ducked and weaved around the base of the tussock, trying to find an opening in the other tiger's defense. 

Noticing an opportunity when the older Khajit danced too close, Mai’Yahr grabbed at his ankle and tripped him up so that he was just as muddy and drenched as he was. 

 

“Zo'Rakh! Kistahe!” A sharp voice cut off their antics and they all scrambled to their feet as a sour-faced Khajiit matron strode up to their impromptu playground. Mai’Yahr's name was conspicuously omitted. 

“What is the meaning of this?” she scolded. “Ma'Kistahe, you are tail to claws filthy! What will your mother think?” 

He pointed an accusing claw to the grey cub. “Mai’Yahr tripped me, Dra'Tsabi.” 

“Mai'Yahr,” she hissed disapprovingly and entirely predictably. “You should know better than to filthy these two with such rough play.” 

The idea had been Zo'Rakh's, but he knew better than to protest and held his tongue, though he couldn't resist the urge to roll his eyes. 

 

Dra'Tsabi's nostrils flared. “Go, go,” she motioned to the cubs. “You had better be cleaned in time for supper. Not one speck of dirt!” 

As they turned to flee, her hand snaked out and caught Mai’Yahr by the shoulder. 

“Not you.” 

 

The younger Khajiit slumped in anticipation of the inevitable tirade, though he attempted to affect an air of innocence. 

“You do not wish for Mai’Yahr to wash for supper, aunt Tsabi?”

She clicked her tongue and looked skyward, as if imploring the moons for patience.

“Of course you will wash for supper, or would you rather run about with dirt between your ears like those savage-” She checked herself. “Like those northern tribes.” 

“No, aunt Tsabi.”

“Dra'Tsabi.” 

“No, aunt Dra'Tsabi.” 

 

The elder Khajiit sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She was irritated when Mai’Yahr referenced her as family, so he did as often as he could. 

“You,” she stabbed a finger at him. “Wash. You will eat with Dra’Tsabi and Omarr-Jo tonight.” 

“Will S'Varra come too?”

“No.” She cut off further questions with a wave of her hand. “Mind the time. And not one grain of dirt!” 

 

Mai'Yahr's head swarmed with questions as he rinsed the mud from beneath his claws and scrubbed where it had matted on his back. It was unusual for his aunt to share meals with his mother and him, and to invite him alone was unprecedented. He couldn't help but think that he was in terrible trouble, if not for the game of Mane of the Hill then for one of the many other sleights that his aunt took offense to. 

The feeling of dread intensified when he slipped into his aunt's home. As the Clanmother of Khenarthi's Roost, she had inherited the manor that the previous heads of the community had occupied. Though it was only a modest household by mainland standards, in the young Khajit's eyes it was nothing less than palatial with it's second story and an upper balcony that overlooked the carefully tended rows of moon sugar that were the lifeblood of the local economy. 

 

His uncle, Omarr-Jo was already seated at the low dining table. He was usually a mellow counterpart to his wife's strict demeanor, but tonight his tobacco pipe and cautious smile were noticeably absent. Mai’Yahr felt himself wilting beneath his stern gaze, the hand he had half-raised in greeting falling back to his side. 

“Be seated. Dra'Tsabi will be finished with the meal shortly.” 

Mai'Yahr did as he was told, not daring to speak the multitude of questions that rose to the forefront of his mind. Was he in trouble? Where was Zo’Rakh and Kistahe, and why weren't they here? Why hadn't his mother been invited? 

 

His aunt emerged from the kitchen, her arms filled with serving dishes. The smell of spiced poultry and rice filled the room, making his mouth water. S'Varra's cooking was not poor by any means, but his aunt's meticulous attention to detail and status in the clan was apparent in the quality of ingredients and the meals she served. 

“Mai’Yahr, go fetch the serving spoons and pour the tea. You know where it is kept.”

She busied herself with arranging the table, shooing the younger Khajiit towards the pantry with one hand. Glad to be occupied with something other than his uncle's inscrutable stare, Mai’Yahr all but jogged out of the room. 

He returned, trying to juggle the large clay jug of tea and assortment of utensils with dubious success. Dra'Tsabi clicked her tongue, plucking the spoons from where he had wedged them in the drinking cups.

“What have you been told about being hasty? Two trips if you cannot carry it all.”

Mai'Yahr bore the criticism with practiced deference, pouring a measure of chilled tea into each glass. 

 

It was a quiet and awkward dinner, punctuated with the clicks of silverware against crockery and the grating of his uncle's spoon against the bottom of his mug as he stirred a measure of moon sugar into his tea. When his aunt finally spoke, Mai'Yahr startled so violently he almost dropped his fork. 

“Your father will not be returning home.”

Manners forgotten, the younger Khajiit gaped at her. “What? Why? Is it because Za’Nir is late? Mother says he will be back.”

Dra'Tsabi sighed, setting her unfinished supper aside. His uncle looked on with something uncomfortably close to pity in his eyes. Mai'Yahr glanced away from him, his fur crawling. 

“It has been ten moons since Za'Nir has sent word,” his aunt continued. “The seasons have gone a full cycle. The moon sugar harvest has come and gone, and the trading ships with them. There is late, and then there is this.” 

Mai'Yahr could only look at her, his young mind struggling to process the information. His father was gone more often than he was home, it was true, but he always came back, harried and tired, perhaps, but always with a warm embrace for him and some trinket from the mainland for his only son. 

Omarr-Jo cleared his throat, his expression soft and sad. “Za'Nir crosses dangerous territory to cover his route. Anything could have befallen him, and we would never know.”

“But-!” Mai'Yahr stammered, denial mixing with vivid imaginings of ferocious beasts and blood-thirsty bandits. “S’Varra says-”

“S'Varra is acting irrationally,” his aunt interrupted, striking the table with the flat of her hand. “The time for Za’Nir to return has long since passed. She does not - cannot - see reason. She shirks work, more so than she has always done. Her finances are in complete disarray. Out of respect for your father and this one's brother, Dra'Tsabi has not forced her from your family's home, despite the fact,” she hissed, “that she has not paid a copper towards it in moons, but this needs change.”

 

The young Khajiit was speechless. He had noticed S'Varra's lethargy and did not protest when she had sewn patches on top of patches on his clothes instead of buying new ones at market, but he had not comprehended how dire their situation was. It would change when Za’Nir returned, he reassured himself, before he sharply reminded himself that that may not even be a possibility anymore. Was Dra'Tsabi saying… his father was dead?

Against his wishes, his throat started to close and his eyes prickled hotly. Mai'Yahr rubbed at them fiercely. He would not cry in front of them.

 

Dra'Tsabi shared a look with Omarr-Jo before she sighed and relented. “We do not know what has become of Za’Nir. Perhaps he will return, perhaps not. But something needs change. Your mother is but a step away from scavenging scraps for your suppers.” 

Mai'Yahr noticed that her attempt at a gentle tone was somewhat ruined by the contempt that had creeper in towards the end of her sentence. Omarr-Jo leaned forward, his voice soft but his gaze firm.

“Mai'Yahr, you must be the man of the house now. You are young, but not so young to avoid work. This one was planting and gathering the moon sugar harvest at your age.” 

“Work? But Zo’Rakh and Kistahe-” he protested before falling silent at his aunt's sharp look. He knew full well that the other cubs would not be expected to labor on the plantations for several moons yet, but it suddenly seemed useless to argue that point to Dra’Tsabi. After all, they had fathers and the favor of the Clanmother. 

 

“Urjojirr is growing old and his joints begin to pain him,” Dra'Tsabi continued. “You will report to him at sunrise and help him with his crops. Your wages, such as they are, will go directly to Dra'Tsabi to pay your family's debts.” 

Her firm tone brooked no argument. Understanding that he was not being given a choice, Mai’Yahr nodded glumly. 

Noticing his expression, Dra'Tsabi clicked her tongue dismissively. “Come now, it is hardly the end of the world.”

As Mai'Yahr numbly got to his feet to help her gather the dirty dishes, concern for his missing father swimming through his mind, he couldn't help but think that it was.


	3. chapter three

“What are you doing? Give that here.” 

Mai’Yahr suppressed a sigh and handed the short-handled sickle to the Khajiit hovering over his shoulder. He had been working beside Urjojiir for several seasons now, returning home with dirt caked beneath his claws and fur soaked to the skin from wading through the tepid water the moon sugar cane grew in, and neither time nor his best efforts had dulled the elderly Khajiit's temper or his quickness to pounce on faults. 

After a demonstration that seemed identical to the way he had just been harvesting the cane, Urjojiir handed the sickle over and moved back towards his own row with a grumble. 

Mai'Yahr returned to the harvest as if he hadn't been interrupted at all, methodically cutting down the long, straight shoots and stacking them upright in the large wicker baskets along the rows. 

 

He had settled quickly into this new routine, rising before dawn each morning and enduring Urjojiir's company until long after the sun sunk beneath the horizon. The elderly Khajiit's share of the plantation was neglected and in constant need of work, from planting and gathering the harvests to repairing baskets and weaving new ones to replace the ones beyond mending. The storage shed, long-overdue for a new roof, had sprung a leak, the cart had broken a spoke, and there were mice in the pantry. 

Mai'Yahr was fairly certain the last task wasn't even part of his job but he planned to address it anyway, for Urjojiir would surely complain loudly to the Clanmother about his lack of work ethic if he did not. 

 

Slice and stack, slice and stack. His sickle was getting dull, leaving ragged edges on the cane he harvested. He would have to stay out late and try to convince the smith to grind the edge back on it after hours because there was no way the elderly Khajiit would dismiss him early to take care of it. 

Another full cycle of the seasons had come and gone since the terse dinner with Dra'Tsabi and Omarr-Jo with no sign or news regarding his errant father. Mai'Yahr had more than enough time to come to terms with the fact that it was likely he never would return, but S'Varra refused to reach the same conclusion, wringing her hands and starting at the horizon with an empty expression whenever he brought it up. 

“Za'Nir, he is just running late,” she deflected. “He will return. He always does.” Mai'Yahr's attempt to organize a grave marker for him had been met with tearful outrage, and since then he had avoided mentioning his father around her at all. 

It left a hollow, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps if he could have properly mourned Za'Nir's passage, if he could have shared the burden of grief he carried, it might have alleviated the pain but as it was, his father's absence was like a wound left to fester. 

S'Varra did not seen to notice or care that her only son was left to shoulder all the work and responsibility for their small family single handedly. She languished at home most of the day, flitting back and forth yet accomplishing next to nothing, leaving Mai’Yahr to tend to the cleaning and cooking after a long day of grueling work in the fields. 

“Za'Nir will take care of it when he returns,” she would say when he brought up the overdue accounts and the long-since exhausted savings. Mai'Yahr held his tongue and pawned some of her more valuable jewelry in town when they were short on money for food. He considered the depressing possibility of saving the mice in Urjojiir's pantry for supper later this week. They were small, true, but if he spit them and roasted them over the flames, they might make a nice accessory to the bland rice and vegetables they had every night. With the state their finances were in, fresh meat was a luxury they couldn't afford often.

Dra'Tsabi's words from moons ago echoed through his mind. 

_Something needs change._

 

His thoughts were interrupted by loud cursing from the next row. 

“Jode and June damn it. Damn your sloth, cub.” 

Mai'Yahr straightened with a groan, noting the peaked masts and furled sails of the trade ships in harbor. 

“Surely, they are several days early,” he protested, looking down the seemingly endless expanse of unharvested cane before him. He would be working late into the night to gather the rest of it. 

“And if you had ever worked an honest day in your life, it would have been done by now,” Urjojiir spat. “Damn northern tribes. Always laying about and expecting everything to be done for them.”

Mai'Yahr was used to the verbal abuse and didn't even bother pointing out the fact that he had never been off the small island of Khenarthi's Roost in his life, much less met any Khajiit from the north in his life, except for his mother. 

For the second time that hour, Urjojiir tore the sickle from his hands. Mai'Yahr considered holding on to it this time, if only to beat the old Khajiit over the head with it. 

 

“What are you dawdling around for?” Urjojiir shouted, specks of spittle flying from his wrinkled muzzle. Some of them landed on Mai’Yahr's face and he cringed, disgusted. “Go, go! Get those baskets to the docks.” 

Happy to get as far away from the elderly Khajiit as possible, Mai’Yahr slid the straps of the closest basket over his shoulders before gathering one more in his arms. The freshly harvested sugar cane was wet and heavy, and his sandal clad feet slid in the mud as he got to his feet and fought to keep his balance. Urjojiir looked as if he was winding himself up to another tirade and Mai’Yahr all but ran out of the field to avoid it. 

_Something needs change._

 

* * *

 

Mai'Yahr made the long, miserable trek out to the docks, panting from exertion and the humid, cloying air of late summer. To his great aggravation, he found that the ship hadn't even begun loading yet. The crew was noticeably absent, probably dismissed to the filthy tavern they frequented on the edge of town, and there was no other moon sugar in sight. 

He shrugged off the baskets with a contemptuous sigh. “Of course,” he muttered to himself, weighing his options. He certainly didn't want to bring the heavy load all the way back, and Urjojiir was likely to tan his hide regardless of what he did. 

 

“Eager, aren't 'ya?” 

Mai'Yahr looked up sharply to see who had addressed him. From the accent, the speaker clearly wasn't a local - in fact, he was an orc with dark, sun-burnished skin, leaning against one of the dock pilings with a whittling knife and some half-carved block of wood in his other hand. His salt-stained attire clearly marked him as one of the sailors, though it was unusual to see one of his race so far south. 

“Khajiit is not sure 'eager’ is right word, but he is here,” Mai’Yahr replied, his tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar common dialect.  

The orc seemed to find this response amusing, chuckling before shaking his head. 

“No loading 'till tomorrow. Crew's got the evening off on account of getting here early.”

 

       Mai'Yahr cursed in his native language, refraining from kicking the heavy baskets. Hadn't he tried telling Urjojiir the very same thing? 

The orc cocked an eyebrow at his display of temper. “I don't know what it is you just said, but I reckon it wasn't a compliment.” 

“No, no-” Mai'Yahr stammered, instantly apologetic. “Not meant for you. This,” he finished lamely, gesturing towards the baskets and the plantations beyond town. “Moon sugar. Not you.” 

“Hmph,” the orc responded, his expression inscrutable. Mai'Yahr gave up on salvaging the conversation. He wasn't nearly fluent enough in the common tongue to express himself anyway. 

“Can this one leave moon sugar here?” he asked, pointing to the load he had carried there. “Load tomorrow?” 

The orc shrugged and returned to his whittling. “Makes no difference to me.”

 

Mai'Yahr sighed with relief and began to make his way back to the plantation. Even if they weren't loading until tomorrow, there was still a great amount of moon sugar to harvest and pack. It would be a late night for him regardless. He thought of the sailors with a twinge of jealousy, drinking and relaxing at the tavern, when inspiration struck. 

He turned on his heel and jogged back to the dock, where the orc was still working on his carving. 

“Can this one work on ship?” he blurted out before giving himself a chance to think about it. Anything had to be better than working at the plantation with Urjojiir. Anything. 

 

The orc paused, pointedly looking him up and down and likely taking in his small stature and the mud caking his fur. 

“You ever been on a ship before, boy?”

“Ah- that is- no,” he admitted. “Mai'Yahr has been on fishing boat.” That much was true; he had accompanied Kistahe's father several moons ago when Kistahe himself had sprained his wrist and couldn't manage the nets. 

“Fishing skiff ain't a ship, boy,” the orc retorted. 

“Yes, but-” Mai’Yahr protested, smarting at the continued dig at his age and sensing the conversation wasn't going in his favor. “Khajiit is not so young. He has worked many harvests. Good worker. Strong,” he added, nodding towards the heavy baskets resting where he had left them on the pier. 

“And what will your father say when you run off on him? Don't he need you on the farm?”

 

Mai'Yahr drew himself up, setting his shoulders back and doing his best to look older than he was. He was one hundred sixty eight moons old - that was, fourteen years by the way they measured age on the mainland, and he was growing tired of being addressed like a child. 

“Khajiit has no father.” Somehow, the admission made it seem more real. He barreled through that discomfort and continued. “His mother does not work, so this one thinks she has no say in how Mai'Yahr earns his money.” 

 

Mai'Yahr wasn't sure how the orc kept finding amusement in the things he said, but there he was, laughing again. The young Khajiit bristled indignantly and prepared to leave with what little pride he had left, but he was interrupted. 

“Got some spit and snort to 'ya, don't you?” 

The mannerism didn't translate well and Mai'Yahr stared at him suspiciously, unsure if he was being insulted or not. 

“I ain't the captain,” the orc continued. “But I am the mate, and we're short a hand. You come back tomorrow, we’ll see what he says.”

 

Mai'Yahr let out a breath of tension he hadn't even realized he was holding. The orc hadn't said yes, but he hadn't said no, either. He had a chance. A chance to get off this miserable island, a chance to leave old Urjojiir fuming in his field, a chance to leave all the mud and stinking water of the moon sugar fields behind.

“Khajiit thanks you,” he said earnestly. The orc snorted. 

“Don't thank me yet. Come by tomorrow. Name's Urimash. Ask one of the crew if I'm not around.” 

Mai'Yahr nodded eagerly, offering a short, formal bow before jogging back the way he came. Urjojiir could work him until midnight if he cared to - tomorrow, he would be gone. 


	4. chapter four

“You planning on sleeping in the field tonight?” the elderly Khajiit barked when Mai'Yahr showed up for work the next morning with what little he owned packed in a ragged satchel slung over his shoulder. 

“Khajiit might as well, the way Urjojiir works him,” he retorted, lack of sleep and desire to be quit of Khenarthi's Roost sharpening his tongue. 

Urjojiir's eyes narrowed. “See if this one gives a damn about what you do. You’ll have the entire harvest hauled up to the docks before noon though, or the Clanmother will hear of it.” 

Mai'Yahr huffed and began loading the cart. As irritated as he was, he was thankful to have a cart at all. Urjojiir's was still broke down in the shed, so he must have loaned a spare one from one of the other farmers. Not for his sake, Mai’Yahr was sure - he would have had him bring up every basket by hand if there was any chance he could bring the entire harvest up to the docks in time.

 

Pulling the cart wasn't an easy job by any means, but it gave him time to mull over his thoughts without the bitter old Khajiit snapping at him every other minute. 

He had told S'Varra he was leaving that morning, but she hardly seemed to hear him, choosing to to stare out the window with a glazed look in her eyes. 

“Good, good,” she mumbled. “Tell Dra'Tsabi.”

Mai'Yahr intended to do no such thing. She could find out on her own when Urjojiir stormed up to her house to complain that he hadn't shown up to work. 

He felt a stab of worry when he considered his mother sitting at home, alone after he left. She had been so dependent on him lately - or useless, he corrected bitterly. It wasn't fair to make him take care of everything for her when she could barely bring herself to tidy the house while he was at work. Maybe this would be the wake-up call she needed to realize that she had to take some responsibility for her life. Maybe then she'd finally come to terms with the fact that Za'Nir was gone. 

_Something needs change._

 

Mai'Yahr lowered his head and quickened his pace, eager to be done with the last of the harvest so he could move on with his life.

 

* * *

  
  


As it turned out, he didn't have to search for Urimash as the end of the day. He left the cart in the fields after his previous trip and brought the last load by hand, ignoring Urjojiir's scornful muttering as he left. With any luck, it would be the last he heard of the old Khajiit. 

“There you are,” the orc bellowed as Mai'Yahr stepped on to the dock, a heavy basket in each arm. “Get those below decks. Follow his lead.” Urimash gestured to a sweating Redguard making his way up the gangplank, similarly burdened. 

“This one can work on the ship?” Mai’Yahr confirmed, his heart soaring. 

“What do you think, I'm having you load ship for fun? Off with you, we got a lot'a bleeding moon sugar to load before dark.”

 

Mai'Yahr scrambled up to the ship without another word, unphased by the orc's brusque manner. He had borne worse, after all, and the ship! He was on the ship now! As much as he wanted to savor the moment, the feeling of the heavy vessel bobbing in the chop and lunging between the mooring lines, the warm, salt-scoured planks beneath his feet, the gilded words spelling “The Raptor” above the spoked ship's wheel, he had a job to do. 

His first day on board was a whirl of rushing back and forth from the gloomy, musty cargo bay below decks to the docks, dumping the moon sugar cane into unceremonious piles and hauling the empty baskets back. He clung to the Redguard he was told to follow religiously, though he hardly seemed to take note of him aside from a nod and a grunt when he first met his eyes. It wasn't much of an introduction, but there was time for little else in the frenzy of loading. 

Mai'Yahr was caught by surprise when he emerged above decks to find out there were no baskets left. The as of yet unnamed Redguard sighed with exhaustion and leaned against the ship's railing, pulling a wad of tobacco out of his pocket. The young Khajiit was  unsure of what he was supposed to do next. He was gathering the courage to ask when the mate stormed by, a force of nature unto himself. 

 

“Stow that!” he roared at the Redguard, who hastily stuffed the tobacco into his mouth before the orc could knock it out of his hands. “I want this ship out of dock and long past those bleeding reefs before sunset. Well?” 

The Redguard scrambled, swinging onto the lattice of ropes leading up to the masts and climbing upwards. Mai'Yahr went to follow him, but was stopped short before he had taken two steps. 

“Where do you think you're going?” 

Mai'Yahr's ears flattened against his head. “This one was supposed to follow?” he asked nervously, pointing in the direction the Redguard had gone. 

“Molag’s balls, no, boy,” the orc reprimanded. “You don't climb the rigging unless you know exactly what you're doing. You been carrying that the whole time?” he asked, pointing at the satchel slung over the Khajiit's shoulder. 

“Y-yes?” he stammered, desperately hoping he hadn't done something wrong. 

“Get that stowed below-decks. Room with all the hammocks. Find Fish-Fingers and get those provisions sorted out.” The orc spun to snap at a passing Nord. “Get those lines stowed properly or get the hell off my ship!”

“Who is Fish-Fingers?” Mai'Yahr asked, eager to get below before he earned the mate's ire. 

“That tight-arsed Argonian, only one on the ship,” Urimash replied before doing a double-take and storming aft towards another unfortunate crew member. “And what the bloody hell do you think you're doing with that?” 

 

The young Khajiit darted into the bowels of the ship, doing his best to avoid getting underfoot as the crew swarmed to get the ship underway. 

The interior of the ship was blessedly calm in contrast to the chaos above. It didn't take long for him to find the crew's berthing - he had passed it many times on his way back and forth with the moon sugar baskets. He wasn't sure where he was supposed to set his things, so he tucked them into a corner where he hoped they would be out of the way before he wandered off in search of the Argonian. 

 

Mai'Yahr was certain he had made a complete circuit of the ship without any sign of Fish-Fingers. With as quiet as it was, he nearly jumped out of his fur with shock when somebody grabbed him and pinned him to the bulkhead. 

“What have we here? A stowaway?” 

He stared stupidly at his captor, taking in the scaled face and the sharp, pointed teeth bared at him. He has heard of Argonians, of course, but had never seen one in the flesh. 

“No, sir, this one was sent by Urimash to help Fish-Fingers.” 

The Argonian's eyes narrowed. “Well, you are fortunate, for I am she.”

Mai'Yahr cringed at his blunder. Upon second look, it was obvious that she was female - he didn't know how he had missed that. She released him and spun on her heel. 

“Come then. There is much to do.” 

  
  


Mai'Yahr found that his departure from Khenarthi's Roost was rather anticlimactic. Some part of him had envisioned watching from the deck or a perch high on the masts as the shoreline receded, but the reality was long hours spent moving crates and barrels to Fish-Fingers’ specifications in the bowels of the ship. 

The Argonian proved to be a stern yet forgiving taskmaster. She ensured that he didn't have an idle moment, but did so without the bellowing Urimash seemed to be so fond of or the vitriol-filled commentary of Urjojiir. Despite their rocky introduction, Mai’Yahr believed that he had made a good impression on her, an opinion that was enforced when she sent him on his way with a crisp red apple from the storeroom. 

 

Supper was a loud, raucous affair. The galley was packed to bursting with sailors sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the narrow benches. The young Khajiit retrieved his allotted bowl of stew and weaved to an open spot, doing his best to avoid spilling any. Now that they were well underway, the rocking of the ship was impossible not to notice and he was having difficulty keeping his balance despite his racial graces. 

He slid in between two sailors, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the scent of so many unwashed men sharing close quarters. 

 

“Here's the new one,” the man on his left, a sun-burned Nord, said by way of introduction. He vaguely recognized him as one of the crew members Urimash had been yelling at earlier, but then again that seemed to describe most everyone on the ship.

Mai'Yahr nodded politely. 

“First time at sea?” 

He chewed on his stew, trying and failing to identify what vegetable was currently in his mouth before answering. 

“Yes. This one is from Khenarthi's Roost.” 

“Straight off the farm, ain't ya?” the Redguard on his right commented disdainfully. Mai'Yahr had noticed that most of the crew were Redguard. This wasn't the man whom he had followed earlier while loading - where he was tall and bearded, this one had close-cropped hair and a dusting of stubble across his jaw. 

“Lay off the kid, ya weren't born on the ship yourself,” the Nord defended. Mai'Yahr glanced at him gratefully. 

“Don't mind Bolsan there, he ain't the bad sort,” he continued. “Most of us aren't, really. Urimash runs a clean crew. I'm Bjadomr, by the by.”   

The young Khajiit craned his neck to take a closer look at the crew gathered in the galley. Most of them were men, but a handful of women were mixed in, as loud and raucous as the rest of the sailors. He was pleased to see a half dozen Khajiiti clustered together, but they seemed to keep their own counsel, whispering conspiratorially amongst themselves. 

 

           “Best not to get involved with them,” Bolsan suggested. “They may be your type and all that, but that don't make them your friends. Dodgy lot.” 

           This directly contradicted Bjadomr's earlier statement, but Mai'Yahr didn't bother to point that out. There was a question that had been bothering him all afternoon though, so he voiced it.

           “If Urimash is not captain,” he ventured, hating the way his choppy grammar must sound but unable to do anything about it. “Who is?” 

           “Oh, that would be King Bitch,” Bjadomr answered loudly. Bolsan shot him a scathing look. 

           “Shut your damned idiot mouth before you get us all in shit,” he snapped. “He meant to say Captain Blanchete.” 

           “Yeah, King Bitch,” Bjadomr muttered, unwilling to be silenced so easily. “Sits in his gods-damned cabin all day in full gods-damned armour - who is he going to fight, a slaughter fish? - with that gods-damned stupid monkey on his shoulder like he's the pirate captain of all the gods-damned sea.” 

           “The monkey bit him, once,” Bolsan explained. “And then the captain had him scrubbing the decks for a week for biting it back.” 

           “That's not what happened and you know it,” Bjadomr grumbled, but he was strangely reluctant to tell his side of the story when the Redguard goaded him.

 

           “Anyway, best to keep your head down if'n you see him about deck,” Bolsan warned.

           “Urimash may have the bark, but capt'n's got the bite. Or rather, that monkey of his does,” he teased, earning a growl from the Nord. 


	5. chapter five

           Mai'Yahr's time at sea passed rather uneventfully. He was only trusted worth the most menial tasks at first - mending sails, tarring rigging, and scrubbing seemingly every plank of wood on the ship when they weren't loading or unloading, but as the seasons passed he was trained alongside the more experienced sailors. 

           He delighted in working the rigging with the older men, even though hauling the sails in was sweaty, difficult work. From his vantage point high atop the yardarms, the ocean spread for miles in every direction in seamless blue. The Khajiit relished the sigh of the wind filling the sails, the creak of timbers as the ponderous trading ship heaved to, and the cry and flap of seagulls that hailed their return to port.

           While he would not necessarily call Bjadomr and Bolsan friends, they often sat together at meals and spent their leisure time ashore together, including the young Khajiit in their raucous jokes and indecipherable sense of humor. 

           They did not return to Khenarthi's Roost again and were not likely to until the next harvest, but Mai'Yahr dutifully forwarded the majority of his wages back home to Dra'Tsabi via a courier. Out of curiosity and sense of duty to his family, he made inquiries about his father but was met with blank looks and apologetic replies. It seemed that Za'Nir was truly lost to the world, and had been for quite some time.

  
  


One fateful night, Mai'Yahr was woken by the very loud and unmistakable sound of an empty barrel being thrown through the crew's berthing. It was followed by Urimash's thundering voice instants later. 

“All hands on deck!” he bellowed, kicking the barrel into the bulkhead with a splintering crash for emphasis. 

The Khajiit was on his feet before he fully realized he was awake, squinting into the glaring lantern the mate was brandishing with no small amount of confusion. 

“Up with you!” the orc roared, flipping a sailor out of his hammock and on to the floor when he didn't respond quickly enough. Mai'Yahr decided that it was a poor time to be asking questions and joined the press of bodies streaming towards the deck. 

There was no sign of the sun outside, placing the time at somewhere in the middle of the night. The Khajiit rubbed furiously at his eyes, stifling a yawn as he shuffled aside to free up the passageway. His ears caught a familiar voice and he moved towards it, his feline eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness. 

“What is this, some drill?” he asked as he sidled up to Bjadomr. The Nord seemed even more disoriented than he was, looking around blearily until he identified Mai'Yahr. 

“Kyne’s tits, I hope not,” he muttered. “Where the hell is Bolsan, anyway? You seen him?” 

 

Mai'Yahr opened his mouth to reply that no, he had not, when the mate's voice cut over the confused murmurings of the crew. 

“Set all sails and douse lanterns! Move, move!”

Bjadomr spat a series of explicatives that Mai’Yahr didn't fully understand and pelted for the rigging, the Khajiit hot on his heels. There was still much he had to learn of the nautical life but there was one thing he understood very well at this point; when the mate gives an order, you do it, and do it immediately.  

The night air had a bite to it and Mai'Yahr shivered despite his insulating fur as he climbed up the ratlines. The ship listed heavily to one side as it was ponderously brought about, and on the deck far below lantern after lantern was snuffed out, bathing the ship in shadow. 

Even as he was inching out along the yardarm to unfurl the sails, Mai'Yahr heard the groan and slap of tackle as the massive crossmembers started to shift, the rigging on the starboard side pulling taunt as the yardarms were brought square to the masts. The Khajiit clung to the beam as he fumbled with the knots holding the sails furled to the masts before tugging it free. To either side, above and below him, his fellow crew members were struggling to do the same before finally, the sails dropped with a thump and a crack as the canvas pulled taunt. 

The Raptor surged forward and Mai'Yahr clung desperately to the beam as she lurched like a draft horse in harness, his claws digging into the wood. 

“Jode and June, what is he thinking?” he swore, heart pounding in his ears. His long braids whipped in his face as he attempted to make sense of the chaos on the deck below. 

 

“Look,” Bjadomr yelled from somewhere to his right. “Sails, port side!” 

Mai'Yahr leaned back on the rigging to see around the mast. Sure enough, a sleek cutter was bearing down on them, flying no colors. If they were trying to outrun them, it was obvious that they didn't have a chance. 

“Who in Jode's name are they, and what do they want?” he shouted back to the Nord. 

“Oh, I’m sure it's the bloody queen of Auridon, come to have a chat and a cup of tea,” Bjadomr replied with strangled levity. 

He was trying to piece together a barbed retort when the sides of the approaching ship ignited with a concussive blast. From below their own deck erupted in splintered explosions and the screams of the wounded and dying. The mizzenmast jerked violently with the impact before slowly, drunkenly leaning to one side with the crack and squeal of fractured wood.

Bjadomr was at his side in moments, pushing him along the yardarm towards the mast, eyes wild and frenzied.

“Back! Down! Get down 'afore the whole thing comes down!” 

 

Mai'Yahr panicked then, stumbling and almost missing the step down when the Nord jostled him again, almost knocking him from his handholds. 

“He is going, Jode damn you,” he snarled, descending as quickly as he could. It was only when he glanced up that he realized the rigging above him was empty. 

A sick feeling crawled up his throat and threatened to escape. He had no time to consider what had just happened, forced downwards by the press of sailors fleeing the yardarms above him. He struggled downwards, skipping rungs in his haste and stepping on the hand of someone below him. Moments later he was kicked in the head and he bared his fangs in a pained snarl. 

The two ships locked together with a shriek of metal and the crash of breaking wood. Mai'Yahr felt the rigging being torn away from his claws and he fumbled for it hopelessly before he pitched backwards and began to fall. 

He heard the sound his body made as it hit the deck - a sort of sickeningly, meaty thud punctuated by the snap of something in his chest giving way. The pain flooded through him a moment later and he choked back a scream when the breath he drew filled his lungs with fire.

Too dazed to even attempt to rise, he writhed on the deck in agony, panting in shallow, ragged breaths. Somebody tripped over his outstretched leg and fell heavily over him, and then he really did scream. 

 

Mai'Yahr didn't remain unconscious for long. He came to only moments later and immediately yearned to be knocked out again. Every breath was torturous. 

The one that had fallen on him was still sprawled across his chest, far too heavy to dislodge in his current state and deathly still. The young Khajiit moaned in agony, hardly able to breathe and incapable of coherent thought as the cries of dying men and the clash of steel washed over him. 

 

And seemingly as quickly as it began, it was over. A ragged cheer broke from the survivors and hope fluttered in his breast. 

“Help,” he tried to call out, though his voice came out in a strangled gasp. “Please, help.” Above him, the masts and broken rigging of the ship swam drunkenly in the darkness. His eyes were watering and something was leaking from his nose, soaking the fur of his face but he could not free an arm to wipe it away.  

Voices rose, calling back and forth to each other in the darkness. Orders were shouted. Still, nobody came. Mai’Yahr gathered his strength and breath.  

“Help - please, help.” Belatedly, he realized that he had slipped back into his native tongue. But somebody must have heard him, even though his voice broke mid-sentence. 

Somebody rolled the corpse off him and Mai’Yahr gasped in agony as something shifted and ground in his chest with the movement. And then, to his horror, instead of a helping hand he saw the glint of a blade poised to deliver a killing stroke. 

“Leave that one!” a voice barked. The saber in his field of vision shifted, it's deadly, bloodied edge tilting away from his exposed throat.  

“Idiot, the cats and lizards are worth something.” 

Another voice, this one far closer. “Really? This one's half dead.” He emphasized the point by delivering a half-hearted kick to the Khajiit's torso. Mai'Yahr couldn't help it - he screamed in agony, but at this point his cry was hardly more than a choked whimper.   

“Half dead is still better than all the way dead, you moron. Throw him in the hold with the rest of them.” 


End file.
